


Wilderness and Wanting

by tardigrape



Series: The Witcher and His Bard [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Basically Just the Whole Bathtub Scene with Geralt & Jaskier, Break Up, Established Relationship, Even More Break Up, F/M, Heartbreak, M/M, Melodrama!Jaskier, More Break Up, Pining, Sorry for that too, Spoilers - Of Banquets Bastards and Burials, There's A Bit Of Sex But Not Much, Things Go Really Badly For Jaskier I'm Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:06:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22593751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardigrape/pseuds/tardigrape
Summary: When Geralt is called to Kaer Morhen, Jaskier must learn to redefine their relationship.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Countess de Stael
Series: The Witcher and His Bard [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591987
Comments: 21
Kudos: 205





	Wilderness and Wanting

Jaskier was searching for just the right word, sitting near the fire as he composed a song about his latest adventure with Geralt. His notebook was open on his lap, and he tapped his pen against his lips, working through the lyrics out loud.

“What’s the best rhyme for ‘gutted’? ‘Strutted’? ‘Thudded’? Hm, ‘rutted’? Fun word, but this is perhaps not the right context—”

“Jaskier.”

“No, that doesn’t rhyme at all. You see, Geralt, a rhyme is when a word sounds like—”

“ _Jaskier_.” Geralt’s golden eyes glowed faintly as Geralt glared at him.

Jaskier sighed and put down his pen. “Yes, Geralt?”

“I need to tell you something.”

Jaskier’s heart began to race. Geralt didn’t ever lead up to the things he said—in fact, he hardly ever said things at all, preferring grunts and snorts, generally, not that Jaskier minded, as it gave him space for his expansive thoughts. So if Geralt was leading up to telling him something, it must be important. And these past few weeks, a certain three words had been rattling around Jaskier’s brain, begging to be said, and if he were honest, he’d been considering actually saying them. Geralt had been much more attentive since they found each other again in Muskarn, and more affectionate as well, even when they weren’t in bed—throwing an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, tousling his hair, touching his leg as they sat by the fire. Jaskier had always expected to be the first one to profess his love (he always had been, always got there before his lovers, some of whom never caught up) so this was truly a stupendous surprise, a gift crafted so finely Jaskier would—

“I’m going to Kaer Morhen for the winter.”

Jaskier shook his head. “What?”

“Kaer Morhen. The witcher stronghold.”

“I know what it is, Geralt, but…” Jaskier’s heart rate slowed back to normal. Not the surprise he was hoping for, but he’d heard worse. “Well, all right, so why the grand announcement suddenly? Do we need to prepare? Should we come with some supplies or something? Oh, oh, I know, what about gifts? How many other witchers will be there? Do you think they’d like wine?”

Geralt was shaking his head. “Not we. I. I am going to Kaer Morhen. You are not.”

Jaskier faltered. He was glad he was already sitting, because otherwise he probably would have fallen right on his ass. He couldn’t be hearing this right. Was Geralt actually telling him he was leaving him? Jaskier’s heart couldn’t take this roller coaster. One moment Geralt seemed about to profess his love, the next he was telling Jaskier they were parting ways. “But…” Jaskier fought the tremor in his voice. “Why not?”

Geralt sighed, looking into the fire. His face betrayed no feeling, and Jaskier thought harshly that the witcher mutations could have included something to counterbalance the bits that dulled their emotions.

“It’s…dangerous,” Geralt finally said, lingering over the words. “Or it might be. I don’t really know.”

Jaskier scoffed. “Everything we do is dangerous. And aside from the fact that you, the amazing witcher with not one but two swords and the reflexes of a cat, will be there, I think I’ve more than demonstrated that I can take care of myself.” Jaskier considered that usually Geralt was the one doing the “taking care.” “Or at least, I know when to let you take over.”

“It isn’t danger like that.” Geralt seemed to be very carefully avoiding Jaskier’s gaze. “Kaer Morhen is where they used to make us.”

“Us? Witchers, you mean? I know.”

“And I…” Geralt seemed to be sorting through his thoughts. Jaskier bit his lip until it stung in an effort not to interrupt. “I don’t truly know how it was done. I know they gave us mutations, but there was more than that.” Finally, he met Jaskier’s gaze. “It could be the place itself.”

“So you don’t want me to go with you in case, what, I accidentally become a witcher?”

Geralt sighed and looked back into the fire. “You wouldn’t become a witcher.”

“Then…” Jaskier ran both hands through his hair. One might have thought, somewhere in all that witcher-making, _someone_ would have explained to the boys how to fucking communicate. “I wouldn’t become a witcher. So what are you concerned about?”

“It takes years of training and trials to become a witcher. You haven’t done that. You wouldn’t become a witcher.” Geralt let the silence stretch so long Jaskier almost broke it, but then he spoke again. “It might affect you, though. Might cause changes.”

“Well, frankly, that would be fine with me.” Jaskier eyed Geralt’s bulging muscles. A bit of extra strength, a heightened sense of smell, the ability to see in the dark, all could come in handy.

“Well it would not be fine with me.” Geralt hunched his shoulders. “Not all the boys survived the changes. Not many, in fact.”

Ah, there it was. Geralt was being noble and protective again. “I’m willing to take the risk,” Jaskier declared. He had thought he lost Geralt forever, once. He wouldn’t do it again.

“Well I’m not.” Geralt glared at him. “You’re not coming. End of discussion.”

“You don’t get to just say, ‘End of discussion,’” Jaskier said, fuming. “It most certainly is not the end of the discussion. You can’t just dictate my life like this.”

“I’m not. You’re free to do whatever you like.”

“What I like is being with you.”

Geralt’s nostrils flared. “Figure something else out.”

“Why don’t _you_ figure something else out?” It sounded stupid the moment it left Jaskier’s lips. Dammit, he could compose ballads that would soften the hardest of hearts, but he couldn’t compose a damn sentence right now to make Geralt see reason. “What’s so important at Kaer Morhen, anyway?”

Geralt fingered the medallion around his neck. “My medallion has been humming all the time lately. Constantly. I think it’s a message. I need to go back.”

“More than you need to be with me?” Jaskier heard the pleading in his voice, but he couldn’t help it. He was losing Geralt all over again, and he wouldn’t simply allow it to happen this time.

“I just need to do this. I can’t explain it.”

“Fine, so you need to do it. I need to join you.”

“You don’t.”

How could Jaskier make him see, make him understand, that traveling with Geralt wasn’t just a pastime, wasn’t something the bard did until something better came along? Did he truly have no idea what he meant to Jaskier? Throwing caution to the wind, his heart hammering, Jaskier said, “But I love you.”

Geralt simply looked at him, his mouth a hard line. “Don’t.”

Jaskier’s vision went white and a roaring sounded in his ears. A cold, hollow void opened in his chest and spread through his body, chasing away the warmth of the fire. His lips formed the words again, although no sound escaped. It had made no difference. All this time he had held back, had kept as much control as he could, and it didn’t even matter.

Geralt did not love him. Geralt had never loved him. And now he was throwing Jaskier away. Again.

Jaskier crossed his arms across his knees and dropped his head onto them, helpless to stop the tears that began to flow freely down his cheeks. If Geralt noticed this he made no sign, and Jaskier would not, absolutely _would not_ look up to check, because either Geralt had noticed and was just letting Jaskier be torn apart by grief, lifting not a single finger to stop it, or worse, far, far worse, he had not noticed because Jaskier was so colossally unimportant to him that it didn’t even register for Geralt that Jaskier was coming apart, the shattered pieces of his heart spilling out of his eyes and splattering softly in the dirt at his feet.

An age passed thus, the light of the fire fading (and, Jaskier presumed, its warmth, but how would he know, how would he ever feel warmth again, when the greatest love of his life had just cast him aside for the second time), and presently Jaskier did look up, wiping the back of his hand over his damp cheeks. Geralt had stretched out on the ground next to the fire, his back to Jaskier. As such, Jaskier couldn’t tell if he slept, and to find out would mean getting up and going around to look, and Jaskier hated to deign to do so, to admit that his need for the witcher’s company was so great that he would peek at his sleeping face as a child peeked at a parent.

So Jaskier turned his back as well, turned away from the man he had chased nearly his entire adult life, hugged his knees to his chest, took a ragged, shuddering breath, and closed his eyes.

In the morning, Geralt was gone.

Jaskier woke, his eyes fluttering open, and the memories of the previous night came crashing back, the sting around the edges of his eyes a hot reminder that he had cried himself to sleep, and he turned to say something, _anything_ to convince Geralt not to do this, to make one last, desperate bid to save himself, save _them_ , but when he turned he found nothing but the ashes of the fire and a flattened patch of grass where Geralt had lain.

Jaskier cried out loud, letting the wails tear from his throat now that no one was here to judge him for it. He knelt in the dirt and tore at his hair, rocking back and forth, then wrapped his arms around himself, because he needed to be held by _someone_ and now there was no one else there.

Minutes passed like this, hours, days perhaps, Jaskier didn’t know, he only knew pain and the wretched horror of being totally, utterly alone. But presently his tears stopped flowing and his breathing settled, and he looked up to find that the sun still hung low in the morning sky, and somehow he had not died of hunger or thirst or heartbreak.

He stood, dusted off his trousers, and resolved to move on to the next. If he was not wanted, well, he would not want.

_So long, Geralt of Rivia. May the world be kinder to you than you have been to me._

Three weeks later, his clothes reduced to mud-spattered rags, his body so thin bones were beginning to jut from places bones had never jutted, Jaskier gallantly announced himself as Viscount Julian Afred Pankratz de Lettenhove, calling on Countess Anne Mireille de Stael, bending into a sweeping bow, before collapsing unconscious in a heap at the feet of her guards.

When he awoke sometime later, the last golden rays of the setting sun were catching drifting motes of dust, making them sparkle as they swirled through the air, and Jaskier was tucked cozily into a poster bed. His shredded rags had been removed, and he instead wore a comfortable if simple cotton nightgown. A table near the bed was set with bread, cheese, fresh fruits, and a pitcher of wine, along with a goblet.

Jaskier scurried out of bed and tucked into the food. He had grown used to meager meals on the road with—well, with a certain person who would remain nameless for the time being—but the past few weeks had stretched his coin to the breaking point and he’d ended up skipping most meals, eking by on scraps of bread and overripe apples plucked off the roadside. Thus this simple meal sated him like no other, and he began to feel a bit more human.

Before he had eaten his fill a knock sounded at the door. He rose and opened it, still chewing. Before him stood Anne, Countess de Stael herself, as resplendent as the day he had last seen her, her dark skin glowing, her dark hair laid over her shoulder in a thick braid. Jaskier was suddenly tremendously aware that he was wearing a nightgown, and also that his mouth was full. He swallowed too soon, his eyes watering from the effort.

“My darling, my muse, my—”

“Shut it, Jaskier.” She pressed past him into the room, her sharp eyebrows drawn together. He closed the door and turned, his cheeks reddening.

She took a breath, her nostrils flaring. “Please explain to me why you turned up at my doorstep, dressed as a beggar, and proceeded to nearly die before I had any idea you were even in the area.”

Jaskier bowed his head. “I apologize, my love—”

“Stop it.” She held up a hand. “I haven’t seen you for years. You don’t get to use that word.”

The cold hollow in Jaskier’s chest fell into the bottom of his stomach, making the food there churn. How could he have been such an idiot? He had done to Anne exactly what Geralt had done to him. He was such a buffoon. Such an ass.

“Anne.” He looked up at her. “I truly am sorry. Truly. You have no idea how much.” His breath hitched. Dammit, he would _not_ start crying again.

But Anne’s expression softened. “Oh, darling.” She crossed the room to stand before him, laying a hand against his cheek. “Someone has broken your heart again.”

The tears spilled out of their own accord. But, merciful gods, this time there _was_ someone to hold him. Anne wrapped her arms around his torso and pressed her cheek against his chest, and Jaskier melted into her, his sobs renewing (although, thankfully, not the ugly, desperate ones from the morning he had discovered Geralt’s absence, but the sweet, moving ones of a man done wrong). She guided him gently to the bed and pressed him to sit, where he sniffled a few times before finally regaining his composure.

“Tell me,” she commanded, thought her voice was soft.

Jaskier sighed. “Must I?”

“No.” She peered at him. “But you want to.”

He nodded. “I suppose I do.” He looked away so she wouldn’t see his tears. “He left me. Twice. I even told him that I loved him, and he still left.” He took a shuddering breath. “He never loved me. I thought perhaps he did, let myself believe it, but in the end…”

Anne laid a hand on his arm. “This man…” Jaskier glanced at her, blurry as she was through his tears. “Is this the witcher in all your famous ballads?”

Despite himself, Jaskier managed a smile. “You’ve heard them?”

“Darling, everyone has heard them.” She smiled back. “Absolutely everyone. Oh, you should have heard Valdo—”

“He was here?” Jaskier’s smile was replaced by a frown.

“Of course not.” Anne drew her hand away, but the lack of its warmth was unbearable. Jaskier caught it in his own. She softened. “I spoke to him last summer, at the troubadours’ tourney in Toussaint.”

Jaskier snorted. “He’s still going to that? What an overstuffed, self-indulgent, pompous—”

“Yes, he’s still going to that, because he has nothing like your fame and it makes him absolutely chartreuse with envy, so don’t be too hard on him.”

A hint of his grin returned. “Well, he deserves it. Such a pedestrian, prosaic—”

“I believe we were talking about the man who broke your heart.” Anne fixed Jaskier with a pointed stare.

“Oh. Yes. Him.” Jaskier sighed. “He’s magnificent. Fearless, yet cautious, always absolutely prepared for a fight. He’s enormous, the size of two men, truly, and stronger than anyone has a right to be, stronger even than other witchers. He claims he cares only for coin and killing, but it’s all lies, really. He’s always doing jobs for pittance for widows and the poor, and giving back the coin they pay him if their children have taken ill, and he always tries to do the right thing even if it gets him in trouble. And he does get in quite a bit of trouble, because he says he doesn’t get tangled up in the affairs of men but in truth he can’t seem to help himself. Anytime someone is abused or neglected or downtrodden he’s there demanding justice, even though no one ever thanks him for it. In fact, they generally spit on him, and sometimes throw stones. Although perhaps that has abated somewhat. I’ve…well, you know. I’ve written a fair few songs about him, and if I do say so myself, opinion seems to be shifting.”

Anne’s eyes were bright as she gazed at him. “Much more than that, I think. You’ve no idea the change you’ve wrought in general opinion of witchers, specifically the one with the white hair.” Jaskier’s mouth ticked up in a half smile. “Would that I could have moved you so,” Anne said, sighing.

Jaskier brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them. “You have always been my first and greatest muse, and always shall be.”

Something sad flitted across her features. “First, yes, but greatest…not for a long time.”

Jaskier swallowed thickly. “Well, it doesn’t matter anymore. Geralt left—twice, in fact—and I know when I’m not wanted. I’m done with it, I tell you. I have officially left that life behind, and good riddance. No more sleeping in the dirt, being chased by monsters and bandits and angry townsfolk, oh no. It will be good to be somewhere I’m appreciated for a while, I assure you.”

Anne caressed Jaskier’s cheek with the hand he wasn’t already holding. “You will always, _always_ be appreciated here.” She closed her eyes and leaned in, pressing her soft lips against his, and sparks ignited in Jaskier’s belly. Oh, yes, _yes_ , this was what it was to be wanted, to be valued, to be fucking _adored_ , oh how he had missed this, how he had longed to be not just tolerated and fucked but _worshiped_ , how had he lived without this? He deepened the kiss, and Anne must have sensed his hunger because she drew in a breath through her nose, but she didn’t pull away, oh no, she pushed deeper, her tongue sliding over his, and she tasted of honey and wine and promises.

Jaskier pulled her to him, pressing her bosoms against his chest, and the heat of her skin was fire under his fingertips, and oh goodness his head was spinning and his vision had gone cloudy and _oh fucking gods_ —

She pulled away, and her voice became dim and distant as she cried, panicked, “Jaskier? Jaskier!” And that was all he knew.

He woke again, knowing time had passed but uncertain how much. The light in the room was golden, but it didn’t slant through the windows, and by this he guessed that it was morning. His head ached and his tongue felt too large for his mouth. He sat up, blinking, and became dimly aware that he wasn’t alone. He turned his head to find that Anne slumbered beside him, still dressed in her finery, although the laces of her gown had been loosened to allow her to sleep. Jaskier pressed the heels of his hands to his head. This was entirely not how he had imagined things would go the first time he saw her.

His stirring must have disturbed her sleep, because suddenly she was sitting up, a light hand on his back. “How are you feeling?” she asked. Jaskier merely moaned, his head throbbing.

Anne slipped out of the bed and padded to the door, which she opened and leaned her head out of, exchanging murmurs with whoever waited outside. Then she came back in, closing the door, and pulled the table closer to Jaskier. Its contents, he noticed, had been refreshed.

“You must eat,” she said, gesturing to the food. “Your strength has failed. Too many days spent walking and not enough nourishment, I’ll wager.”

Jaskier’s stomach felt sour, his mouth dry. He groaned.

“No, I’ll not hear it,” Anne said, cutting a slice off the wheel of cheese and handing it to him on a piece of bread. “You’re a sack of bones. Dearest, if I weren’t already madly in love with you, I wouldn’t give you a second look, the way you appear right now.” She closed his hand around the food. “If nothing else, I can nurse you back to health.”

The idea of Anne de Stael nursing him back to health was so tremendously mortifying Jaskier hastily devoured the food she pressed onto him, then grabbed a few more handfuls, as though it had been his idea all along. As he finished the meal, a knock sounded at the door. Anne hurried to answer it, ushering in a man with a thin mustache who carried a leather bag.

“Julian, this is Master Florian, a healer. I’ve asked him to come look at you.”

“Oh, please no,” protested Jaskier, but Anne held up a hand.

“You’ve passed out twice in as many days. If you want to continue to stay under my roof, you will be subject to my care, which today includes an examination by Master Florian. Understood?”

Jaskier nodded. Master Florian set down his bag, opened it, and took out a complicated device that he placed on his head. It magnified his eyes so much he looked rather like an owl. Or a frog. Jaskier sniggered. Florian and Anne frowned at each other.

Florian prodded at Jaskier’s neck and chest. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Just now,” Jaskier responded.

“No, no. Before you came to this house.”

Jaskier frowned. “I don’t recall.”

“The day before?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Two days?”

“Yes, perhaps.”

Florian sniffed. He held Jaskier’s wrist, his head cocked, and thumped his feet. Then he turned to Anne. “It’s as you suspected, my lady. He is suffering from malnutrition.”

“Oh dear!” Anne cried, as Jaskier said, “Oh, honestly.” Florian tutted at him. “It is no great matter. Regular meals will set him right in no time. I will leave you with a potion that aids in digestion. Have him drink it each day in the morning. It will speed healing.”

“I’m right here,” Jaskier muttered. “You don’t have to talk about me like I’m an invalid.”

Anne shot him a dark look as Florian removed his complicated headpiece and stowed it in his bag. She escorted him back out the door, thanking him, smiling broadly. Her smile fell slightly when she turned back to Jaskier.

“Well.” She smoothed her skirt, composed despite the fact that her bodice was still half unlaced. “I’ll order you up some better food, and some clothing. You’ll start taking meals with me, and you’ll finish all of them, do you understand?”

“Yes, mother,” Jaskier muttered, but amended to, “Yes, of course,” when she shot him a look. But the look quickly softened, and Anne sat beside Jaskier on the bed, brushing his hair off his forehead.

“You never did have any sense of self-preservation whatsoever,” she said fondly.

Jaskier frowned. Good gods, she was absolutely right. The witcher—Jaskier still refused to so much as think his name—had repeatedly said as much as he dragged Jaskier away from some sticky situation or stepped in front of him, sword in hand, but Jaskier had never given it much thought, because Ger— _the witcher_ said a lot of nasty things about him, and barely half could be remotely considered true. But it wasn’t just the monsters and the husbands and fathers Jaskier had found himself at the mercy of. He had never tried to protect his heart, had always been rather proud of wearing it on his sleeve where it might brush up against anyone, had always reveled in pouring all of himself into everything he did so that it might pour back into him as a ballad that would touch hearts across the continent.

And look where that had gotten him. Thrown out like refuse, tossed aside, left wallowing in misery without the decency of so much as a goodbye.

Jaskier sighed. “I’ve been such a fool.” He looked up into the dark eyes of the woman who always cared, who was always there no matter how often Jaskier left her behind. “Thank you,” he said, kissing her hand. “For everything.”

She pulled him to her, kissing him fiercely, her lips soft and sweet but her mouth hungry and insistent, her tongue probing the depths of his mouth. Jaskier returned her kiss, brought his hands up to tangle in her hair, caress her face, grip her shoulders and pull her toward him.

Anne moaned into his mouth, and something hot and bright twisted in Jaskier’s belly, and he wondered if, perhaps, he might convince it to chase the cold void away, if he could kindle it until it shone so brightly no shadows remained.

But Anne pulled away, her lips reddened from the kiss, her hair mussed, her eyes dancing. “Patience, my love,” she said, smiling. “Get your strength back first.” She winked. “You’re going to need it.”

The next few weeks passed in a haze, filled with hearty meals lengthy conversations. Anne rivaled Jaskier when it came to talking, and it was wonderful to have someone to share real conversation with again, someone whose replies were more than grunts and shrugs. And the music! Anne’s voice was divine—it had, of course, been one of the first things that drew Jaskier to her—but she was also an excellent composer and lyricist. She and Jaskier spent many afternoons and evenings with instruments in hand, a notebook open in front of them, picking out chords and melodies while Jaskier penned and revised lyrics, signing harmonies and duets and filling the house with song.

One evening found them thus, Jaskier jotting down a line they had just devised, Anne running her fingers through his hair, both of them sprawled on the floor. He sighed and closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of her fingers through his hair, the warmth of her body close to his, the soft melody she hummed gently under her breath. He turned to her, noticing how the firelight rimmed her hair with a golden glow, how her dark eyes caught its reflection.

Anne caught his gaze, and the sparks in Jaskier’s belly ignited again. He pulled her close and pressed his mouth to hers, and her arms wrapped around him as she returned his kiss. His fingers found the laces of her bodice and he tugged at them, freeing her breasts. She pulled away from the kiss to pull off her bodice, her eyes shining, a smile on her lips. He grinned back, leaning forward as her dress was discarded, and together they lay, stretched out on the floor.

Jaskier kissed every bit of her he could reach, marveling at her soft, smooth skin, unmarked and unblemished. No scars or bruises marred its perfect, dark surface. And he was definitely _not_ thinking about scarred skin in this moment, was entirely focused on Anne, whose hands were now unlacing his trousers, fingers now curling around his cock, and oh gods her hands were so small, her touch gentle and light, Jaskier almost wished she had an inhuman strength to grip him and make him ache. Jaskier kissed her again, deep and hard, and she mewed, but didn’t return his force, and he reminded himself that she was delicate, that care was needed.

So when he slipped off his trousers and finally slid inside of her, he held back from pounding her senseless, instead savoring the warm wetness that coated his cock, enjoying watching the changes in the expressions on her face, which were tremendous and varied and communicated so much. He let her expressions guide him, let them show him the right angle and rhythm to fuck her, so that in very short time she was bucking beneath him, her fingernails digging into his arms, gasping and moaning as she came. And, knowing now how best to please her, he did it twice more before finally allowing her to climb off his cock and wrap her lips around it, and he refrained from slamming into the back of her throat, instead coming into her mouth and across her lips.

Lying in the bed beside her afterward, watching the fire burn steadily lower, he told himself that this could be all he needed. Good food and good music and a loving and tender partner, yes, this was what he wanted. This was enough.

Yet when the spring sun began to thaw the snows of Redania, the Duchess of Claremont stopped by on her way to Novigrad, bringing with her news from across the Continent. The three of them sat at breakfast one morning, Jaskier idly scribbling lyrics in his notebook while the women chatted, trading gossip about the various nobles. He kept half an ear on the conversation—after all, he _did_ keep up with the nobility, even if just from a distance—but was presently more engaged in thinking up rhymes for “mellifluous.”

“And did you hear? That witcher is back in Redania. Oh, _you_ know, Jaskier, the one you wrote all those songs about.” The Duchess nudged Jaskier with her foot.

Jaskier’s head snapped up. “Back in Redania?”

Anne pursed her lips. “Well, yes, Jaskier has many friends. Did you know he was invited—”

“Have you seen him? The witcher, I mean,” Jaskier asked, laying aside his pen.

“Oooooh, no, not in the flesh,” the Duchess replied, relishing having gotten Jaskier’s attention. “But perhaps soon. I heard he was headed this way.”

Jaskier glanced at Anne. Her brows had drawn together and her mouth was a tight line. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” she said.

“You don’t think what’s a good idea, my love?” Jaskier asked.

“For you to go looking for him.”

Jaskier scoffed and sat back. “Oh, well, I didn’t say I would, did I? I just thought, you know, if he’s in the area, perhaps we might, well, run into each other. Out somewhere. As friends do.”

Anne was outright glaring at him now. The Duchess glanced nervously between them. Finally, Anne spoke. “Is friends what you are?”

Jaskier tried to laugh, but it came out a bit choked. “Of course we’re friends! Traveled together for years. I know him better than anyone, probably. He always said he loved having me around.”

Anne’s eyebrows rose. “Did he now?”

“Perhaps I’ll call on you later, dear,” the Duchess said, rising. Anne rose as well, as did Jaskier, but Anne told him to wait while she saw the Duchess out. When she returned her face was steeled in a neutral expression.

Jaskier rose, opening his mouth to speak, but Anne held up a hand. “Jaskier.” She took a deep breath before she spoke again. “Months ago you arrived on my doorstep, half-starved and completely brokenhearted, because that man had treated you badly and then cast you aside.”

Jaskier couldn’t argue with any of this.

“And now that you hear the merest whisper that he might be nearby, you seem all fired up to let that happen all over again.”

“I didn’t—”

“Do you love me?”

Her question caught him off guard. “Of course I do, darling.” He took a step toward her, but she took a step back. He stopped.

“I suppose what I mean is, are you in love with me? Is what you feel for me anything at all like what you felt for him?”

Jaskier frowned. Anne was truly delightful. She was beautiful—most noblewomen were pretty, but Anne had the kind of looks that stopped people in the street, the kind that could start wars if she weren’t careful—and she was brilliant. She was smarter than most of the professors at Oxenfurt, and probably would have racked up more degrees and titles than any of them had women been allowed to study there. And _talented_ —Jaskier wasn’t modest, he recognized his own shining talent, and Anne’s matched his, possibly exceeded it. The only reason she wasn’t more famous than he was because she didn’t often perform. And she was so very kind. Anne had never stooped to the manipulations and intrigue common to the court. She was good to people, including her staff and servants.

But Geralt…Geralt was beautiful like no one else was beautiful, in a coarse, feral way that had made the hairs on the back of Jaskier’s neck prickle the first time he laid eyes on the witcher. Geralt was smart, with an ability to sense danger coming, especially when that danger took the form of angry peasants armed with farm equipment. Geralt was unbelievably talented, and Jaskier couldn’t, wouldn’t lay that entirely on his mutations. No, mutations made Geralt strong and gave him heightened senses, but it was Geralt himself who fought as though he were dancing, who could pirouette out of the way of a blow and jeté back into a killing strike. And kind. Geralt never let a bad deed go unpunished, and he never took coin from those clearly too poor to pay.

Where Anne was home and softness and comfort, Geralt was adventure and hard edges and uncertainty. Jaskier loved them both. But his heart had never been satisfied with peace and ease.

He looked into her eyes, which held a silent plea. “I love you both,” he said. “I truly do.” He sighed and looked at his hands. “But the life I had with Geralt…”

Anne choked out a soft sob. Jaskier rushed to her, wrapping his arms around her, but for once she didn’t relax into his embrace. Instead, she turned shining eyes to him. “I knew, from the moment you arrived, I could not keep you.” She pushed his hands away. “Go. Go find your witcher. Go have your adventure. Just try not to die.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier whispered. Truly, he was. He wished he could have been the lover she deserved. But he couldn’t ignore the call of the road, the tug in his bones drawing him back into the unknown.

\----

It didn’t take long to track Geralt down. The White Wolf was well known now, and word of his travels spread out around him. Jaskier congratulated himself on his own good work—he’d set out to change opinion about Geralt, and had succeeded not only in that, but in increasing fame for both of them. So it was neither surprise nor accident when Jaskier finally caught up to the witcher in an inn not far out of Vizima.

The few days he spent on the road (a trip made infinitely better by the parting gift Anne had given him in the form of a gelding called Pegasus) had given Jaskier time to work out how their meeting would go. Their months apart had cooled Jaskier’s feelings—well, that and the absolutely vicious manner in which the witcher had left—and Jaskier had to face the fact that, although he may have been in love with Geralt, Geralt most definitely had _not_ been in love with him. So he was prepared, now, to guard his heart, to resist any temptation to fall back into old patterns, and to be merely a friendly companion, using Geralt for ballads and poems as much as the witcher used him for…well, goodwill with the people, he supposed.

Thus it happened that Jaskier clapped Geralt on the back before sitting across from him at his dim table in the back of the tavern. “Geralt, old friend,” Jaskier said. “What happenstance we should run into each other!”

Geralt’s brows rose as he took in the sight of the bard plopping merrily onto the bench before him, then his face settled into its usual scowl. “Hm.”

Jaskier gestured with a coin to the barkeep, who plunked down a tankard, which Jaskier drank cheerfully. “How was Kaer Morhen?”

“Cold.” Geralt took a sip from his own tankard.

“Ah. Well. Yes, that does happen, in winter. Did you speak with your old witcher person? Venom, or whatever?”

“Vesemir.” Geralt sighed. “Yes.”

“What did he want?”

“What do _you_ want?” Geralt wasn’t precisely glaring at Jaskier, but it was close.

Jaskier grinned widely. “What do I want? You’re back south from the snow-capped peaks! We’ll travel together again, like always, of course.”

Geralt cocked an eyebrow at him. Jaskier rolled his eyes. “All right, all right, I get it. Look, I know things got,” he waved a hand dismissively, “weird. When you left. I admit I was a bit melodramatic.” At this, Geralt snorted. “Anyway, that’s all in the past. I spent a tremendously lovely winter in the exceptional company of the Countess de Stael, my first and greatest muse, and you should know, Geralt, I’m madly in love with her, as she is with me, so I am here officially in the capacity of your friend. Nothing more.”

Geralt eyed him. “I don’t need a friend.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes even more. “Yes, you _do_. Specifically, you need me. Might I remind you that you used to be known as the Butcher of Blaviken? Who changed that, hm? Was it you?” Jaskier poked Geralt in the shoulder. He scowled. “No, you need me, just as I need you. You’re the witcher, I’m the bard. We travel the continent, having great adventures (that’s the witcher part) and spreading the tales of them (that’s the bard part) to entertain and enlighten the masses.”

“I don’t need you.” Geralt scowled and drained his tankard. “Go away.” He rose and left the table.

Jaskier tripped over his own feet several times hurrying after him. “No,” he said, half-running to keep up. “No, you don’t get to order me to go away.”

Geralt glared at him and kept walking, out of the tavern. Jaskier did not relent, chasing him into the street. “Listen, you couldn’t have any other life, right? Hunting monsters for coin, that’s what you’re made to do.” Geralt grunted, which Jaskier took for assent. “Well, I couldn’t have any other life, either. I was born to perform. It’s in my blood, in my bones. And I need to be out in the world, getting the experience to write songs based in reality. Which, I should point out, you told me to do.”

“I did not.”

“Geralt, would you just—can you stop walking for a minute and _listen_?” Jaskier dragged at Geralt’s arm. Geralt whirled, snarling, but Jaskier planted his feet. “Look, I know you find me irritating, but I also know you care about me—no, don’t give me that look, you do. And I want you to know I’m going to keep traveling, singing in different towns, chasing adventure, with or without you. But without you, well…the roads are riddled with bandits and monsters, quite dangerous. Without you, what chance do I have? I’ll probably be torn apart or run through within the week.”

Geralt’s golden eyes widened, and his eyebrows rose. Jaskier suppressed a grin. He’d hit a nerve. He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet as he waited for Geralt to respond.

“Fine,” Geralt growled eventually. “You can come with me. But stay away from my fights.”

That was an argument for another day. “Yes, yes, of course.” Jaskier grinned.

Jaskier and Geralt established a new pattern for their new relationship. Geralt steadfastly refused to let Jaskier come along with him when he ventured out to slay monsters, but he didn’t feel the same about anyone else, so Jaskier begged, wheedled, cajoled, and sometimes outright bribed townsfolk to follow Geralt and watch him fight. Then these people would return and tell Jaskier the tale. Jaskier found this arrangement quite tolerable—people added embellishments and exaggerations he might not have thought up himself, and were then happy to hear their own tales rendered into ballads, which Jaskier liked to perform before he and Geralt moved on.

They no longer slept together, either, in any sense of the word. In camp, they slept on opposite sides of the fire. In town, they often rented two rooms rather than one. When only one was available (or when their coin ran low), Geralt graciously let Jaskier have the bed, claiming he needed less sleep. When he did sleep, it was on the floor, save for the times Jaskier insisted that a man who was still bleeding was a man who needed to be in a bed. Jaskier warmed his own bed with various delightful girls and boys, human and elven and dwarven, whatever caught his fancy. Geralt occasionally did the same, though many of his companions charged an hourly rate.

When Geralt and Jaskier touched, it was companionable rather than affectionate.

Things were, in short, quite good.

Thus one winter afternoon found them at a small inn near the Cintran capital, Jaskier sitting comfortably inside, Geralt out in the muggy cold hunting a selkiemore. Jaskier took notes quickly as his local man relayed the details of Geralt’s latest hunt, grinning at the picture he painted. He could make a great song out of this, certainly. Geralt returned, demanding payment without even greeting the man, so Jaskier leapt to action, singing his most famous (and financially motivating) song until the crowd joined in.

He had more than the usual reasons for wanting Geralt in a good mood. He’d received an invitation to play at the betrothal feast of Princess Pavetta. He’d carefully steered Geralt to this inn, only a short distance from the capital. All that remained now was to convince him to come along.

A simple task, certainly.

“Food, women, and wine, Geralt!” Jaskier cried, grinning. Geralt turned, arching an eyebrow at him. At least, that’s what Jaskier thought he did. He was entirely smothered in selkiemore guts, so it was a bit hard to be sure.

“Maybe,” Geralt growled. “But I need a bath.”

“No argument there,” Jaskier agreed. They headed upstairs to their shared room, where Jaskier shrugged off his doublet and added a few buckets of boiling water to the bath while Geralt peeled out of his…well, frankly disgusting clothes. As Geralt slid into the bath, groaning a bit with pleasure, Jaskier delicately picked up the sticky pile of clothing and discreetly slipped away, asking the innkeeper’s wife if she wouldn’t mind terribly adding them to her next wash. When he stepped back into the room his heart sank to find that Geralt was still liberally smeared in grime, just sitting in the bath with his head tipped back. Jaskier filled a bucket and poured it over his head.

Geralt growled at him. “There’s food and wine here. And I’m pretty sure some of those people downstairs are women.”

Jaskier poured another bucket over his head. “Now, now, stop your boorish grunts of protest. It’s one night bodyguarding your very best friend in the whole wide world. How hard could it be?”

“I’m not your friend.”

“Oh? Oh, really? You usually just let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom?” Honestly, they’d stopped fucking. Couldn’t Geralt admit _any_ fond feeling for Jaskier?

Geralt shot him a look, but didn’t argue.

“Yeah, exactly. That’s what I thought,” Jaskier grumbled. “Every lord, knight, and two-penny king worth his salt will be at this betrothal,” Jaskier continued. “The Lioness of Cintra herself will sing the praises of Jaskier’s triumphant performance!” He tossed a handful of perfumed salt into Geralt’s bath.

Geralt stared at him a moment. “How many of these lords want to kill you?”

“Hard to say,” Jaskier replied, thinking over his noble lovers. “One stops keeping count after a while. Wives, concubines, mothers sometimes.” Daughters, fiancés, brothers.

Geralt glared at Jaskier.

“Ooooh, yeah, that face.” Jaskier sat beside him next to the bath. “Scary face. No lord in his right mind will come close if you’re standing next to me with a puss like that.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and reached for a mug of ale.

“On second thought,” Jaskier said, taking the ale out of Geralt’s hand, “might want to lay off the Cintran ale. Clear head would be best.”

“I will not suffer tonight sober just because you hid your sausage in the wrong royal pantry.”

Jaskier turned. That was quite a metaphor. Perhaps a bit of his way with words was rubbing off on the witcher?

“I’m not killing anyone,” Geralt continued. “Not over the petty squabbles of men.”

“Yes, yes, yes, you never get involved. Except you actually do, all of the time.”

Geralt continued to glare. Had he forgotten all the times he hunted down bandits, demanding they return stolen money and goods to starving peasants? All the times he’d freed people captured as slaves?

“This is what happens when you get old. You get unbearably crotchety and cantankerous.” Jaskier wondered what Geralt would be like in actual old age. What would he do, when life on the road became more than he could bear? “I’ve actually always wanted to know, do witchers ever retire?”

“Yeah.” Geralt frowned up at him. “When they slow and get killed.”

“Come on.” Sounded like quite a retirement. “You must want something for yourself after all this monster-hunting nonsense is over with.”

“I want nothing,” Geralt replied.

Jaskier regarded him. He knew Geralt considered himself a weapon, something to be pointed at the thing that needed killing, but in the years they had been lovers, Jaskier had seen the softer side of Geralt, the side that enjoyed having his hair brushed, the side that stroked his fingers lightly over his lover’s back as he drifted off to sleep, the side that sank into a hot bath at every available opportunity. Wanted nothing, Jaskier’s entire ass. Geralt was just not telling. Jaskier pouted. “Well, who knows. Maybe someone out there will want you.”

“I need no one. And the last thing I want is someone needing me.”

Jaskier had definitely said _want_ , not _need_ , and yet Geralt had heard the latter, not the former. As if Jaskier hadn’t been by Geralt’s side for the better part of a decade. As if Geralt didn’t know how much he meant to Jaskier, how Jaskier kept coming back to follow him again and again, in spite of himself. “And yet,” he said, “here we are.”

“Hm.” Geralt looked around. His features darkened. “Where the fuck are my clothes, Jaskier?”

“Ah, well, um, they were sort of covered in selkiemore guts so I sort of sent them away to be washed. Anyway, you’re not going tonight as a witcher.”

Geralt cocked an eyebrow. Jaskier stood and rummaged in his bag, producing the absolutely exquisite blue brocade doublet and trousers, complete with complementary undershirt, he had procured for no small amount of coin while Geralt was out hacking monsters to bits. Geralt frowned and growled. “I’m not wearing that.”

Jaskier scoffed. “Going to the Cintran court naked, then, are you? Your clothes are gone. It’s this or nothing.”

Geralt snarled, but raised no further argument.

“Finish your bath,” Jaskier commanded. “We need to get there soon.”

The night went swimmingly, at least at first. Although Jaskier had hoped Geralt might silently stand behind him, looking menacing and driving away anyone who might have sworn an oath of vengeance against him, Geralt was quickly spotted by a royal magician. Jaskier had no idea Geralt had friends at court, but wasn’t that just like him, never to mention his connections. At any rate, he performed his duties, well, passably, and Jaskier remained whole and hale long enough to lift his lute and begin to sing. The wine flowed, the people danced, and even Geralt seemed to be enjoying himself.

And then, quite predictably, given that Geralt was in the room, blood spilled. Oh, and it was epic—a cursed knight, the Law of Surprise invoked, a vicious queen, all the ingredients for a spectacular ballad—and of course, right away, there was Geralt in the thick of it, once again standing up for the underdog, swinging his blade in defense of the poor cursed knight. _Not killing anyone over the squabbles of men, ha!_ Jaskier was absolutely delighted—delighted and a bit terrified, of course, but mostly delighted, because the vicious queen herself called an end to the fighting, and then it was revealed that the beautiful princess was _in love_ with the hideous cursed knight, and the tale was becoming legendary, Jaskier was writing lyrics in his head already.

And when Pavetta’s power was revealed, Jaskier knew _this_ ballad, _this_ tale would be sung through the ages, his career was made, let Valdo suck on _that_ , because Jaskier was here, was actually witnessing history being made, and even years of hunting monsters with Geralt couldn’t compare to this.

But then Geralt, stupid, stubborn, not-getting-involved Geralt had to go and intervene, had to fucking invoke the fucking Law of fucking Surprise, and how could he, how little sense did he have, knowing that the Law of Surprise had been responsible for the whole convoluted thing, that it was the only reason any of them were there in the first place?

Jaskier hurried out of the hall after him, making his apologies Lady Celaine, catching up to Geralt as he strode down the steps of the keep.

“Geralt!” Jaskier cried. “Geralt, wait!”

Geralt whirled. “Whatever you’re about to say, I suggest you think better of it.”

Jaskier sagged. “Come on, I know that was a bit intense, but—”

“That,” Geralt pointed at the hall, “was exactly what I’ve been trying to avoid. And you brought me here.”

“You can’t think this was my fault,” Jaskier said.

Geralt glared. “If it weren’t for you, I would have been far away from here. I wouldn’t even know it happened.”

Jaskier scoffed. “So that makes me the bad guy now? I forced you to step into the fight? I forced you to invoke the Law of Surprise? Which was uncommonly stupid, by the way—”

“You dragged me here.” Geralt took several steps forward and glared down at Jaskier, their noses nearly touching. “You got me involved. As you always do. You can’t seem to help yourself.” His eyes flicked back and forth between Jaskier’s, then he snorted. “Leave me alone.”

He turned and began walking away. Jaskier scurried after him. “Geralt, please, I just—”

Geralt whirled. “Leave. Me. Alone.” His eyes glowed brightly, and the words came out with an animal snarl behind them. Jaskier backed up a step. Geralt turned and stomped off, into the whirling snow. Jaskier watched him until he disappeared around a corner.

Well, that was something. It seemed he had lost Geralt yet again. He wasn’t even sure what had gone wrong this time. He’d maintained the most casual of relationships, only the merest hint of friendship. He’d reigned in his singing and chattering and dancing. He’d kept his hands to himself. Still, it seemed none of it had been enough. Geralt had, once again, walked away from him.

Jaskier, wrestling with his heart—which was most definitely _not_ broken, because he was _not_ in love with Geralt, he hadn’t been for quite some time now, they were friends but not lovers—found himself being pulled northeast, back toward Anne and her smooth skin and dark eyes and warm voice. So he slung his lute across his back, made his way to the stables, stepped into the stirrups, and pointed Pegasus’s head away from Cintra, away from Geralt, away from the things he most wanted, and rode instead toward Anne, toward song and food and warmth, toward love and gentleness.

Enough of witchers and wilderness and wanting. Enough.

Jaskier could do better.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who encouraged me to finish this piece, and everyone who stuck with it until the end. I know it's a major departure from the other works in this series, so I really appreciate your support.
> 
> I'm on tubmblr: [thetardigrape](https://thetardigrape.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I live for kudos and comments!


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